You don’t have to be this way. I know I hurt you, but I was young. The truth is, you were boring. The constant drum circles and mushroom trips were interesting at first, but it was all you ever wanted to do. Plus, you never showered and that one big dreadlock smelled horrid. But you didn’t need to turn into a hate-mongering xenophobe just to impress me. I’d rather you bought me a puppy or ice cream. Perhaps you could have chanelled your frustration into a painting or prose-poetry.

I guess you’ve found success. I understand that you sell thousands of books to misguided individuals searching for somebody that hates other people more than they hate themselves. That’s fine. I hope you’re happy with yourself. But I won’t take you back. Ever.